Embracing Life
by AZGirl
Summary: "One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all your broken pieces will stick back together."


**Disclaimer**: The Musketeers are not mine. I'm just borrowing the concepts and characters for a little while.

**Spoilers**: Season one via vague references.

**A/N**: This story is partly Celticgal1041's fault. We were talking about which of the guys gave the best hugs and I got ideas…

Warning: You might want to have a tissue handy while reading the first part of this story.

**ooooooo**

"_One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all your broken pieces will stick back together." – Unknown. _

ooooooo

In the overwhelming joy of getting his commission from the King, d'Artagnan forgets himself and a heartfelt handshake had rapidly turned into a hug.

First, he hugged Aramis who, with a proud smile on his face, gripped him tight. Then, caught up in the moment of elation, he hugged Porthos too. Thankfully he remembered himself just in time to limit himself to a clap on the shoulder when it had come time to thank Athos for all the man had done for him over the past few days and months.

Later that night when the celebrations were over and he was alone in his new room at the garrison, he came to regret not going for it and hugging Athos. In such a short time, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had become so important to him that he couldn't imagine his life without them anymore.

D'Artagnan hoped Athos had not been offended or embarrassed by the fact that he'd not been hugged when their other two friends had been. Most of the time Athos was an enigma to him, but d'Artagnan was slowly getting better at gauging the other man's moods. Athos seemed to be the most aloof person he had ever met next to his father.

ooooooo

The last time he could remember his father hugging him was the day of his mother's funeral when he was only eight years old. The majority of the hugs he'd received until then had been from his mother. Her hugs were gentle, but firm, and managed to convey her feeling with ease. You knew how much she loved you with that one, simple gesture, regardless of the occasion for the hug.

The day his mother died was the last time he'd hugged his mother.

His baby sister had come early. D'Artagnan remembered the look on the midwife's face and the immense grief on his father's when they had come out of the bedroom. That's when he knew his mother was not much longer for this world.

His father had led him into his parents' bedroom and he'd seen his mother lying in bed, her thick braid laying over one shoulder and his newborn sister resting in the crook of his mother's other arm. Her face was so, so pale but no one could deny that look of love on her face – not only for him and his father but the for the tiny daughter she had just birthed.

He'd been lifted up onto the bed and his mother had stretched her free, but trembling, arm out towards him. Not wanting to hurt her, he had hesitated at first, but then she'd smiled slightly and he'd fallen into her embrace. The hug was still gentle, but all the firmness and all the strength were gone. Though she was dying, she still managed to express her feelings towards him in that final embrace.

A cry from his little sister interrupted what would be their final moment together. It had been an "_I love you_" and a "_Goodbye; I'll see you again_" all rolled into one. He didn't want to leave her side, but somehow knew that his father and mother needed some time alone.

D'Artagnan got down from the bed and watched as his mother briefly tightened her hold on his sister before kissing her forehead. Then his father had carefully taken his sister from his mother's arms and began to lead him out of the room. He managed to look back only once; though his mother smiled at him, he saw a couple of tears wend their way down her face.

They went into the front room, and d'Artagnan was instructed to sit in the big chair by the fireplace. When he'd sat down, his father had placed his sister's bundled form into his arms and went back into the bedroom, quietly shutting the door.

D'Artagnan had never held a baby before but sensed that this would be his only chance to hold his little sister. At first, he'd been terrified to hold her, she was so small, so fragile looking. He was afraid he would hurt her if he dared to move around too much or the wrong way, especially since her breathing didn't sound quite right. However, as time had gone by, he had gotten braver and had run a finger down her chubby cheek a few times.

He had waited so long for a sibling, but it had come at a heavy price. Soon he would be alone again, and soon his father would be too. Perhaps they could find a way to be alone together.

His sister began to stir and she briefly opened her eyes. It might have been his imagination, but he would swear that she looked straight at him with her beautiful, dark brown eyes, which he knew he would always remember. Then her little face scrunched up and she began to cry. Suddenly, his heart was in his throat with the certainty that she had just sensed the moment their mother had gone to heaven.

Tears had started to run down his face and he'd brought his sister closer to his chest to comfort her, and when he thought back on that moment some time later, he remembered being comforted as well.

When his father finally came out of the room, he'd knelt down next to the chair and told them that their mother was with the angels in heaven. Somehow his sister really had known about their mother's untimely death.

His father then very carefully wrapped his arms around the both of them and held them for only God knows how long.

He and his father named the baby, Céleste, knowing that heaven would soon also claim the too little girl. Before dawn the next day, his sister had left this earth to be reunited with their mother. They buried his mother and sister together.

After the priest had left and their friends and neighbors had expressed their condolences, his father had pulled him into an embrace. It was as if the man was holding onto him for dear life, afraid his son would disappear if he were to let go. It had felt like his father was asking him to not leave him as his mother and sister had left them.

D'Artagnan could barely breathe the hug was so strong and tight, but there had been so much love in it as well. It came very close to eclipsing the final one that he had shared with his dying mother. And in that moment, he realized that this would be the last hug he would ever receive from his father. This prompted him to put what strength he had into returning it, hoping to imbue it with all his love and devotion for his remaining family.

ooooooo

He had been correct in his realization. It _was _the last true hug he ever received from his father. It was as if his mother's death and burial had stolen the man's ability for expressing affection beyond what could be communicated through words alone.

That was how he'd learned that words could have so much power and that the expressions on another person's face carried just as much weight as the spoken word. Claps to the shoulder became the norm and he basically forgot what it was like to hug or be hugged.

That changed when he discovered girls, but the hugs given and received between a man and a woman were different in intent and purpose. Being hugged by your family was just…different. It frustrated him that he didn't have the words to explain that difference, but felt there was one all the same. When Amélie hugged him for the first time when he was fourteen, he hadn't realized how much he had missed them.

By the time he'd left for Paris with his father, he had been with several girls from his village, but thought that Amélie was the best hugger in general and in the more…personal, intimate kind as well.

ooooooo

The day his father died was the last time he would ever hold his father in his arms. He didn't know if it could really be considered a hug, but in those last precious seconds of the man's life, there had been no time for anything else. His father's last words were to name his murderer, and then he was gone.

For a long time, he'd sat there with his father in his arms, ignoring the pouring rain, the cold, and everything else except his grief and his guilt and his thirst for revenge.

Since then, he'd felt the embrace of a lover or beautiful woman multiple times. The action occasionally reminded him that being embraced by family was something that was forever more out of his reach on this side of heaven.

The only way he could fathom that he would ever experience it again would be if he could have a family – a wife and children – of his own someday. Though the likelihood of that long hoped for wish coming to fruition had swiftly died with Constance's rejection. He should have known better; it was unrealistic to think he could build a life and have a family when the woman he loved was married. Still, he would miss her hugs as they had reminded him a little of his mother's.

ooooooo

The hugs he had shared with Aramis and Porthos after he'd received his commission were expressions of gratitude. They had also partly been in celebration for his friends becoming his new brothers-in-arms. It hadn't felt the same as being hugged by family, but it had been close enough.

He couldn't help but wonder if his parents and sister would've been proud of him and his achievements. For a moment, it was all he could think of as he had stood up with his new pauldron strapped to his arm, and he had felt their loss all over again. Thoughts of his family and the overwhelming joy he had felt had probably been why he had forgotten himself and dared to invade their personal space in the first place.

When he had turned to Athos, he remembered the man patting his shoulder after strapping on his pauldron. Athos was similar to his father in how he expressed affection. He'd never seen the older man hug anyone, but there was the occasional clap to the shoulder or touch to an arm. It was in Athos's eyes where you could see the most emotion, no matter how hard the older man tried to hide behind a stoic façade.

That quick comparison of Athos to his father had left d'Artagnan feeling that the slight lingering of Athos's hand was a sign of genuine admiration or affection. His brief, return clap to the shoulder when they had shaken hands seemed an inadequate thank you for everything the man had done for him. He worried that Athos would consider him ungrateful for all the training and mentoring that the older man had given him. However, nothing was ever said about it by either of them. D'Artagnan could only assume that everything was alright between them.

Over the following days and weeks since his commission, d'Artagnan had begun to notice a new intimacy with his friends. It was as if through his show of affection, that the dam had been broken and hugs became a little more commonplace between them.

ooooooo

Aramis seemed to have a knack for knowing what kind of hug was needed in every situation. He also seemed to know when the contact was needed and how long it should last.

The days when he was feeling down about how things had ended between him and Constance, Aramis would be there for him. On those days, Aramis would slip an arm about his shoulder and draw him in close for a moment before letting him go.

One day when he was in the marketplace, he saw a woman, who from a distance had looked like his mother. Normally, this wouldn't affect him, but then a young boy with dark hair had called for his mother and the woman had turned towards him. In her arms was a small baby that he would have bet wasn't more than a month old. Even this sight wouldn't usually distress him were it not for the fact that it had just recently been the anniversary of his mother's and sister's deaths.

Suddenly not able to stand the sight any longer, he had swiftly left the marketplace without buying what he had come there for in the first place. As he'd walked back towards the garrison, his few remaining memories of his mother and sister rose to the surface. His life, and especially his relationship with his father, had changed so much after they had died. They'd had a good relationship, more like friends than parent-and-child, yet he found that the only real time they spent together was when his father was teaching him the sword.

Losing his father the way he did had shattered his world once again. He had become an orphan, alone in the world. Through his quest for vengeance, he found friends, a vocation, and a woman he would come to love. Thoughts of Constance and their all too brief relationship then flooded his mind, and he couldn't take it anymore.

He needed to escape his past and numb himself to the present. At the next street corner, d'Artagnan had turned in the opposite direction from the garrison and towards the nearest tavern.

By the time Aramis had found him, he was well into his cups. His friend had tried to get him to leave but he had refused to go until he'd finished his bottle of wine. Aramis had then stolen the bottle right from his hands and had given it to a passerby. It had irritated him, but he'd decided the incident wasn't worth fighting over. Besides, assuming he would remember had happened in the morning, he could always get his revenge at another time.

Aramis had helped him out of the tavern and by chance they met up with Athos who assisted in getting him back to the garrison. They had brought him back to his room without incident and had immediately sat him down on his bed. Athos said something to Aramis about going out to find Porthos in order to inform him that d'Artagnan had been found and had left.

In the meantime, he had attempted to get his boots off but the task had somehow become overwhelmingly difficult. Aramis smirked and crouched down to help him. After getting the second boot off, Aramis looked up into his face with a smug smile and a comment about he would be soon regretting how much wine he had consumed. Then Aramis's eyes narrowed and his expression had suddenly saddened. Seconds later, d'Artagnan's arms were full with Aramis, who was tenderly hugging him, one hand to the back of his neck and the other moving slowly up and down his spine.

At first, d'Artagnan was shocked by the display of affection, but then he soon sank into it. Somehow that one hug had done more to lift his melancholy than all the wine he'd had to drink that night.

ooooooo

Porthos's hugs varied in the strength behind them, but each one was the same in the way that both the man's arms completely engulfed the person. Body-to-body, long arms encircling the person's back, Porthos hugged as he lived – bigger than life.

D'Artagnan remembered the day he first was on the receiving end of one of Porthos's full-on hugs. He had noticed that very few people ever received them and that they were only given out to those Porthos felt closest to.

Not long after the Queen had been safely returned to the palace following the attempt on her life, Captain Tréville had sent him on a mission without Athos, Aramis, or Porthos. The Captain felt that he needed more experience working with some of the other Musketeers as well as completing simple missions on his own.

His friends had protested, but were reminded that they had also been assigned to similar duties when they had been newly commissioned. D'Artagnan knew his friends had meant well so he'd tried not to be annoyed that the three of them seemed incapable of loosening the apron strings.

He was sent to deliver some correspondence to Chancellor Dupré at his home. When the Cardinal had been informed of where d'Artagnan was being sent, Richelieu had added a letter to be given to the abbot of a monastery no more than an hour to two out of the way. The trip would take him all day, and it was more than likely he wouldn't be returning to the garrison much before dark.

The mission itself had gone off without a hitch; it was the weather that had conspired against him and had made it impossible for him to return as scheduled. The storm that had quickly developed had made what should have been an easy trip home into a fight against the elements.

D'Artagnan had seen the dark clouds and had done his best to outrun them, but they'd easily caught up with him. The wind from the storm had been blowing small tree branches and other debris all over the countryside for some time before the rain had begun coming down in a torrent. Almost instantly the visibility had been reduced to barely more than the length of his horse in front of him.

By the grace of God, he had managed to find some shelter in an old, abandoned building until the violent storm had passed. As he had waited, shivering from the wind penetrating his rain-soaked clothes, d'Artagnan had wished more than once that his friends were there with him. Ever since his father had died, he had not been as fond of pouring rain, often seeking out company when the weather turned that direction. Alone with his thoughts and in a building that seemed capable of crumbling down around him at any moment, d'Artagnan couldn't stop himself from repeatedly recalling the day his father had died. In between, he prayed that the rain would quickly let up.

When the storm finally began to die down, d'Artagnan could see from the direction it was moving that it would most likely bypass Paris entirely. Because of this, his friends would not understand why he was so late in returning and would likely reprimand him for his tardiness.

He tried to make good time heading back to Paris, but some parts of the road had turned into a muddy sludge, forcing him to keep his horse to a slow walk in order to avoid injuring the animal. Consequently, he returned to the city much wetter, much colder, and much later than he had originally intended.

D'Artagnan had ridden into the garrison many hours after full dark and had immediately begun looking for his friends, hoping they weren't too furious with him for returning so late. The first of them that he'd spotted was Porthos, who was sitting over at their usual table. Porthos must have heard his horse because his head snapped up from the cup sitting in front on him on the table.

He had smiled at Porthos and begun to dismount. By the time he'd turned around to hand his horse's reins over to one of the stable boys, Porthos had been right there and had gathered him into a crushing hug. After the day he'd had, d'Artagnan hadn't realized how much he had needed that hug until Porthos's arms were around him. Without his conscious decision, his muscles had begun to relax and he'd sunk in to the comfort of those huge arms.

After Porthos had finally released him, d'Artagnan had hardly opened his mouth to explain his tardiness when the older man practically yelled at him for being so late and worrying them all. Had Aramis and Athos not been assigned guard duty for a soirée at the palace, Porthos and the others probably would've already been out on the road looking for him. Then his friend had started in on how wet and disheveled his appearance was, making him edge ever closer towards losing his already frayed temper.

Normally d'Artagnan would not have taken too kindly to being yelled at for something he couldn't control, but just when he was about to say something he would have regretted, the worry in Porthos's voice and on his face finally registered in his tired mind. He understood that it wasn't a lack of faith in him or in his ability to take care of himself, but a genuine concern for his well-being. Any trace of irritation towards his friend quickly fled.

After finally allowing d'Artagnan to explain everything that had happened to him, Porthos apologized for his outburst and gave him another, brief hug. Slinging an arm over his shoulders, Porthos steered d'Artagnan towards his room so he could change into clean, dry clothes. As they walked, d'Artagnan realized just how safe and protected he felt.

ooooooo

It wasn't until another month had passed that he finally experienced one of Athos's hugs.

The four of them had been sent to escort one of the King's friends, a Duke who was of age with the King, back to Paris for a long visit. The Duke had insisted that he travel by a coach that was probably a little too ostentatious for a road sometimes plagued by bandits. They had wanted to protest the idea, but knew there was nothing that they could really do about it.

Due to the location of the Duke's estate, it was necessary to spend time on some less traveled roads on their way back to Paris. D'Artagnan knew that the others, and especially Athos, were anxious to connect back to the main road, worried that there were too many places for an ambush along their current route.

Their concerns were validated when they were attacked not far from the turn off for Paris. The brigands' attack came when they were just coming around a bend in the road.

Athos along with the Duke's valet, Laurent, each took up a position outside one of the two carriage doors in order to prevent the bandits from getting to the Duke. Porthos and Aramis surged forward to fight the majority of the attackers, while d'Artagnan had fallen back to guard the rear and take on any who tried to surround them. The coachman had stayed aloft in his seat in order to provide cover for all by shooting those men who managed to get past those protecting the Duke.

In the course of the fighting, Laurent, who had seemed to be a jack-of-all-trades, was killed and Porthos and the coachman were both injured. Porthos's injury to his leg had facilitated the decision for him to take the place of the coachman, while d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Athos continued to fight the remaining men.

At one point, two men attempted to attack the Duke from the side of the carriage formerly protected by Laurent. One of the men was stopped by the Duke with the help of a well-placed shot from a pistol hidden within the carriage.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan having just finished dispatching the last of the men who had attacked from the rear of the coach, took on the second man, a blond that seemed larger than Porthos in girth if not height.

The big man, looking as though he would relish the opportunity to kill him slowly, drove him back away from the coach through sheer brute strength rather than skill of any kind. He lost his footing on the side of the road and went head over heels down the small embankment lining it. Quickly regaining his footing, he was set upon once more by the blond as well as two more men, who must have been held in reserve.

Shortly thereafter, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen several more men making their way up the embankment; it was evident that there was a second wave of attackers ready to take down his friends and the Duke. D'Artagnan could see the odds easily shifting in favor of the brigands and knew that the only logical course of action was to attempt to retreat while the road ahead was relatively open.

A pistol went off at the same time Athos yelled for him. At the moment, it was impossible for him to reunite with his friends until he finished dealing with the men he was fighting. As Musketeers, it was their duty to protect the Duke at all costs. With that in mind, and cut off from his friends, there was only one thing he could think to do.

Just as Athos had once again yelled his name, he replied as loudly as possible with two words – _Ambush! Go!_ – praying that his friend would understand what must be done. The roar of denial he heard in response warmed his heart, but there was no time to say anything else other than to repeat – _Go!_ – before he was surrounded and in a fight for his life. Moments and another pistol shot later, he heard and saw the carriage hasten down the road.

D'Artagnan was determined to live, but hoped that if he should fall, that Athos and the others would not feel guilty for leaving him behind.

Through God's mercy, he had emerged victorious against his three opponents, but not without some cost to himself. Despite his injuries, he managed to evade the remaining brigands. His horse had also managed to escape from their attackers and had come when he'd whistled for the animal.

Once he was back on the main road to Paris, d'Artagnan stopped for a few minutes to inspect his wounds, and felt that the one on his lower back most likely needed stitches. Having no bandages, he tore a sleeve off his shirt and stuffed it between his back and doublet, tightening his weapons belt to keep it in place in order to contain the bleeding as best as possible.

He had tried to set a fast pace in order to catch up to his friends as quickly as possible, but the wound on his back had repeatedly protested. D'Artagnan did not want the others to worry about his fate any longer than necessary, but if he wished to avoid aggravating his injuries further, he would have to move ahead at a more reasonable pace.

When he reached the outskirts of Paris, d'Artagnan debated if he should continue on to the palace or return to the garrison. He knew his friends would have to head straight to the palace, but afterwards would return to the garrison to help Porthos with his injured leg before heading back out again to find him. Knowing he would be of no use to anyone at the palace due to his own injuries and flagging strength, he decided that the choice had already been made for him.

He would head straight home.

ooooooo

Entering the garrison, d'Artagnan had immediately felt relief that he was finally home, though he was still worried about what had befallen his friends.

D'Artagnan dismounted and, after steadying himself with a hand clutched in his horse's mane, he handed off his reins to a stable boy who looked surprised to see him. Before the boy could say anything, he was already headed towards Captain Tréville's office to report in, ignoring a couple of other Musketeers who looked just as surprised that he was there.

He had felt relatively fine while riding, but now that his feet were on terra firma and that he was back amongst his brother Musketeers, it seemed that his body had finally begun to betray him. His steps felt leaden as he slowly made his way up the stairs, exhaustion and the pain of his wounds creeping in and weighing him down. When he had reached the landing, the world seemed to shift unnaturally around him, but it soon settled.

Just as he started forward again, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, who was limping slightly, stepped out of Tréville's office. All four of them stopped in their tracks and simply stared at each other. D'Artagnan had hoped that his friends had made it back without coming to further harm and standing in front of him was the proof that they had done so. Porthos's injury was obviously not serious enough to keep him from moving around. He couldn't tell what injuries the other two might have, but it was obvious that they were all definitely exhausted.

Given their continued speechlessness and how his vision had taken to greying and wavering around the edges, he started to wonder if he wasn't imaging their presence before him. He was just about to step forward to confirm if his friends were real and not figments of his imagination when Athos suddenly surged forward and pulled him into a hug.

At first, he just stood there, happy that his friends were alive and surprised by how fierce a hug it was. It was almost as if the older man was hanging on for dear life – whether it was his or Athos's, d'Artagnan would never be sure of each time he thought back on it. His hesitation didn't last long, and d'Artagnan brought his arms up to hug his friend just as fiercely, burying his head on top of Athos's shoulder. A moment later, he thought he heard Athos quietly sigh in relief.

It was difficult to tell how many seconds or minutes ticked by while the two of them were hugging. No insult to Porthos's or Aramis's hugs, but now that he had experienced one, d'Artagnan found that he liked Athos's the best.

At first, d'Artagnan thought that he might be biased because of the hug's intensity or because of his obvious relief and joy that Athos and the others were alive. D'Artagnan quickly changed his mind when he realized that the reason he liked Athos's hugs the best was because they were so rarely given out to anyone. The hugs were so rare that, in all the time that d'Artagnan had known him, he had yet to see Athos hugging either Porthos or Aramis.

Time began to flow again when Athos finally started to loosen his grip, though the man didn't completely let go of him, shifting to grip his shoulders instead. In a quiet, determined, and almost angry voice, Athos demanded that d'Artagnan would never again force him to leave a brother behind. D'Artagnan wanted to say that he couldn't promise such a thing but all that came out of his mouth was a brief apology before the world dropped out from beneath him.

ooooooo

When he opened his eyes, he quickly discerned that he was lying on his side in his own bed. In an attempt to get more comfortable, he managed to awaken the injury on his back, causing him to hiss at the fire that raced along it. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he heard Athos gently encouraging him to breathe through the pain.

Finally reopening his eyes, he saw that Athos was holding a cup and was ready to help him drink. The bitter taste of the cool liquid told him that it was likely something for his pain. After several sips, he refused to drink any more of it despite the glare Athos had shot him.

Athos set the cup on the ground beside his chair and just looked at him with an enigmatic expression on his face before encouraging him to go back to sleep. At first, d'Artagnan had no idea what the other man's expression meant. Then his tired brain recognized it as nearly the same as the expression Athos had on his face just before the older man had hugged him.

D'Artagnan was suddenly reminded of when he was eight and his father had lost his ability to display any type of physical affection towards others. In the months following the final hug between him and his father, d'Artagnan had come to discover that a particular expression would steal over the man's face every so often. Over time, he had learned to equate that facial expression with the missing hugs. He had never let on about the look on his father's face for fear of losing that too.

It was not exactly the same, but Athos's current expression had reminded him so much of how his father's had been back then.

Thinking back, he realized that he had seen the expression more than once in recent months, but had never quite figured out what it had meant – until today. Perhaps Athos's hugs weren't so rare after all.

Though he was slipping back under and giving in to sleep, d'Artagnan smiled slightly and hoped it conveyed his understanding of what the older man had been trying to say without words. More than a decade ago, he had learned that sometimes what wasn't said was just as powerful as what was. He was more than a little disappointed at how blind he had been all this time. Then again, he wasn't sure that he would have been able to recognize that expression with affection until now.

At the moment, his eyes were staying closed longer than they were staying open, but he thought that he had seen Athos nod once and match his smile.

Once upon a time, d'Artagnan had thought himself to be alone in the world. But that was not true. As he had built a new life in Paris, he had gained mentors, friends, and brothers-in-arms. Now he realized he had regained something he had thought he had lost forever.

He closed his eyes and kept them closed, allowing himself to drift ever closer towards sleep.

His last thought was that as much as he preferred Athos's hugs, he wouldn't mind having another chance to compare them to Aramis's and Porthos's hugs.

He suspected that they were all equally as wonderful when they were given by family.

ooooooo

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**A/N:** So who do you think would give the best hug and why? :)

_**Thanks for reading!**_


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